


Who We Lose

by coffeecup_and_ink



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Good Sibling Wilbur Soot, Lies, Memories, Non-Chronological Timeline, Oh god, Older Sibling Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Protective Wilbur Soot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Wilbur Soot, Sky Gods - Freeform, THEY'RE ALL SIBLINGS BOIIIIIS, Temporary Character Death, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and Tommyinnit and Floris | Fundy and Toby Smith | Tubbo are siblings, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, Wilbur Soot-centric, gotta keep my brand, not me projecting onto wilbur AGAIN, so canon divergent it's almost its own fiction, you read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecup_and_ink/pseuds/coffeecup_and_ink
Summary: {If you've already read any of the "who we lose" series, you've already read some of these. I'm re-organising.}Wilbur Soot was many things. Musician. Brother. President of a country falling to pieces. Former fried. Leader of a war he could never win. But he wasn't, and would never be, forgiving. But when the war goes in a different direction that no one could have predicted, and when a new enemy rears its head after a millennia of biding its time, he must ask himself a question:Who are you willing to lose to save the others?
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap & Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Floris | Fundy & Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Everyone, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	1. The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a set of oneshots in a series, but I didn't like that format so I've just mashed them all together into one big book. Because of this, some of the chapters are much longer than others. My bad

The evening was gentle. The forest was calm, quiet—quieter than it had been for months, untouched by the hurt and ruin that came with war—and still. A cool breeze danced around the trees, bringing with it the first taste of summer. It curled up, sweeping long arms into the sunset-painted sky, bursting into red and yellow and blues he couldn’t even imagine. They lit the forest in extraordinary fire, and George closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of just him and the forest and the sky.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

George jumped. He hadn’t noticed Wilbur ( _President Soot,_ his mind bitterly supplied. _You lost the right to call him Wilbur years ago_ ), sitting silhouetted against the sunset, feet dangling over the ledge of the mountain. He looked smaller than George knew he was – he looked younger, the light of the sun brightening his features and shining on the graceful softness he had lost in the war.

If George squinted, he could almost see Wilbur—the _real_ Wilbur, not President Soot—in the way he held himself. He was always tall, even when they were children he was taller than some of the adults, and no matter how dark the bags were under his eyes, no matter how many nights he spent working to support his three younger, sicker brothers, Wilbur never slouched in on himself. Even now, in the middle of a war, after months of suffering, President Soot still stood tall.

Wil- _President Soot_ was staring out over the ledge. For a moment, George watch him scan the horizon of the SMP with practiced ease, as if he had looked out over this ledge a thousand times, and knew he would come back a thousand times more. In one hand he held a small diamond sword, cracked and damaged to the point that George wondered if it could even cut anything. He watched him thumb at the battered pommel, fingers twitching around the hilt as if ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

Neither George nor President Soot had moved from their respective places on the cliff, when President Soot spoke again. “You know, when I was younger I would come up here and sit with my father. He always told me that no matter how hard it got, there would always be a place for me in the forest, and in the trees.” He laughed, sadly, still looking over the cliff. George shifted nervously, feeling uncomfortably warm in is full netherite armour.

President Soot continued, seemingly unaware of the tense air between the two of them. “Before Tommy and Tubbo came along, and before he told us that we were all adopted, I always assumed I was some mythological creature or something. ‘Cause Fundy is, and Techno was, and Dad’s Elytra made him look like an angel, so why wasn’t I?”

George shuddered. _Techno_. The horrific death of Techno Blade had been their village’s horror story for as long as he could remember; every child knew the story of the infamous half-pig warrior, the youngest and most deadly protector of the village, stolen away in the night by raiders. The only physical evidence of him ever living in the village at all was the small, nondescript grave that popped up one night a few months later, on a small hill on the outskirts of the village, but by the time George was ten he knew the story verbatim, knew the path to Warriors Hill off by heart.

It wasn’t until he was fifteen that he figured out why Wilbur would cry whenever the story was mentioned, or why he looked at the hill with such potent despair, or why, just after Wilbur’s father died, a second grave was hastily put up next to the first.

It wasn’t until he was twenty, long after the village had been reduced to ruin, that Sapnap solemnly told him that there were no bodies to bury, and that the two graves were empty.

George was silent, suffocating in the layers of bitter regret in Wilbur’s voice. He knew how Wilbur felt about the death of his father; he died before George met him, but he found Wilbur standing by his grave enough times in their teenage years to know that the man meant more to him than George could ever know. “Why are you telling me this? Did you really bring me here to reminisce?” He said, hoping his voice came out less like he was choking.

“No.” Finally, Wilbur stood, and his hair lit up with the sun like the forest around him, giving him the flaming image of a halo around his head. He looked at George. “I brought you here to ask one question. Just one, then you can leave, and I won’t tell any of my people you were here, and you can tell _Dream_ that you didn’t accept a dinner invitation from the leader of the enemy.”

George cursed internally. _If I leave now and he tells Dream, he’ll kill me._ “Fine. Ask your stupid question.”  
  


“Do you know why we’re fighting? Why this war started?”

George faltered. He had expected Wilbur to ask him about plans – bases, attacks, ambush methods. It’s what he would have done. But, as he looked in Wilbur’s dark eyes he saw nothing but earnest curiosity and the aged, bitter regret that seemed to be ever-present around him, he realised that Wilbur wasn’t talking to him as if he were his enemy. “Dream said you stole his land. He said that L’manburg is rightfully ours, and we need to take it back.”

Wilbur laughed coldly, any remaining warmth in his eyes fading, and George remembered with a jolt that just because Wilbur wasn’t as dangerous with a physical weapon as others on the SMP, didn’t mean that he was weak. “Is that what he told you? I should’ve known. The bastard’s always been a good liar.”  
  


“He’s not lying!” George had no idea what L’manburgian swords and bows could be pointed at his back at that moment, had no idea whether or not his shouting could mean the swords and bows descending from the trees and killing him before he even had time to react, but Wilbur’s spiralling monologues and honeyed words scared him more than any sword ever could.

Wilbur wasn’t like Dream. Not at all. Dream was all planning, all attacking. He could outsmart anything with a brain. George had seen Dream face an army with nothing but a shield and an iron sword, and come out victorious. Wilbur, however? Wilbur could talk. Wilbur could persuade someone to stab themselves in the back with nothing but a well-timed word and a fake, plastic smile.

“Isn’t he?”

George hadn’t seen Wilbur’s real smile since they were children. Of course, he’s seen the fake ones. The ones that slipped over his face like a mask during diplomatic meetings and discussions, all teeth and lips and no eyes. Those smiles made it impossible for George to find any similarities between young Wilbur Pandel—the shy, gangly, clumsy kid George knew from the village, the one who talked about the stars like he had lived among them, who sang songs hastily written on napkins and palms of hands, whose whole closet consisted of a khaki coat he got from the roadside and a scraggly black beanie that was owned by two people before him, the one who was George N. Fund’s best friend for years—and battle-hardened, cold-eyed President Soot, whose only smiles were unnervingly charming or predatory, who wore his emotions under his skin and wrapped around the centre of his heart to keep secret, who was Lieutenant George of the Dream SMP’s sworn enemy.

_Change a title, and you change a whole relationship. Funny how things work like that._

“…He’s not lying,” George said again. His voice was weak. _Damn it_. “Dream said-“

“I don’t give a _damn_ what Dream said.” The glowing halo of sunlight surrounding Wilbur’s head grew suddenly sharper, its piercing fire flickering fiercely, reflecting the malicious-angry-sad-regretful flame in Wilbur’s eyes. For a moment, his placid masked smile slipped off, and underneath was so raw, so fervent, so utterly _human_ that George had to look away.

Shielding his eyes from the fury in Wilbur’s gaze, George realised with a start why Wilbur thought of his father as an angel; he had never met the man, but in that moment, outlined by the storm of the setting sun, standing amidst the blazing forest as if he was right at home, he knew that no mortal man could have raised a man as wild, as destructive, as turbulent, as graceful and peaceful and _kind_ , as he.

“I didn’t ask what Dream said. Dream _lies_. He lies and he takes and he kills, and he doesn’t stop, he _won’t_ stop, for anyone. He won’t stop for you, he won’t stop for Sapnap, or Eret, or me-“ Wilbur snarled. George bristled.

“How would you know? All you ever did for him was bring him trouble!”

Wilbur stopped. The forest was silent. The sun lowered behind the mountains, the fire along the treetops dwindling, then going out altogether, and the cliffside was shrouded in night. Somehow the dark was even more suffocating than the blaze of the sunset.

“Is that what he told you?” Wilbur’s voice was a whisper, the fiery halo around his head gone, reduced to nothing in his ashy, dark hair. “Is that what _you_ think?”

George felt a pang in his chest. Wilbur’s eyes, still bright and raw without his masked smile, seemed to stare right through him, into his brain and up towards his whole sense of being. George was reminded again how _young_ Wilbur was.

How young they both were.

What God decided to send children into a war?

Because really, that’s all they were – children. George was one of the oldest, for the Gods’ sakes, and he was only twenty. He couldn’t imagine how it felt for Wilbur’s brothers, all under eighteen ( _George had shot at children. George had watched a sixteen-year-old lose a duel he knew he’d never win. George had watched a sixteen-year-old’s brothers, only sixteen and seventeen respectively, watch their baby brother fall. George had watched Wilbur pick Tommy up, turn Tubbo and Fundy away from where he fell, where Dream stood victorious and silent, wipe his own tears from his face and take his family away, George had watched and watched and was still and couldn’t move didn’t wouldn’t can’t move can’t move can’t)_ and fighting a war that should never have happened, would never had happened if only Dream hadn’t-

_Stop._

“Don’t _do_ that.” George hissed, shaking his head roughly to get rid of the thoughts. “You don’t get to pretend you’re in the right, when all you wanted was land, too.”

Wilbur’s face darkened. “I _wanted_ to protect my family.”

“ _We_ were your family too!”

“Well.” His eyes flashed, dark and glassy. He wiped at them hastily, turning away from George. “You’re not anymore. You lost that right years ago.” He breathed heavily, once, twice.

The forest was silent. Dark. George felt cold. “Is that it? Is that where we are now?” He felt his heart clawing up his throat and he wanted to scream. Wilbur couldn’t leave it like this. He couldn’t make George remember everything he had pushed away, make him ask himself what he was _really_ fighting for, who he was _actually_ fighting and then leave. He _couldn’t_. “Wilbur, please, listen to me. We used to be family. You, me, Dream, Sap, everyone. It used to be us, not us and _you_. Do you remember?” George swallowed past the lump in his throat, ignoring the burn in his eyes, and his words came tumbling out of his mouth in disarray. “Back when we were kids, and everything was easy, and we’d run around the forest and pretend we were fighting monsters, and Sapnap’d fall over and hurt his knee? You and Skeppy would try and convince everyone that he was poisoned, and Tubbo ‘n’ Bad would cry ‘cause they thought he was gonna die, and Dream pretended he wasn’t interested but when Tommy dared him to climb the highest tree and jump off he would, ‘cause he could never say no to Tommy? Why did that have to end? Why can’t we go back?”

Wilbur stood still. Then, in a voice quieter than a whisper, as if any louder and his entire being would shatter like glass, he said “I can’t. I’m not strong enough.” He paused. George heard his breath stutter. “I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t.”

“But-“

“Stop.” Wilbur’s voice broke. “Please.”

The forest was silent. The cool breeze that had danced around them dissipated, and the air felt old and stagnant like a tomb. George heard him heave one last sigh, then watched the mask slowly stitch itself over his face like a parasite, sapping him of his energy and leaving him a husk. George watched quietly. He had lost this battle.

President Soot turned to George, smiled at him. His face was all teeth and lips and no eyes. “I think we’re done here. Have a pleasant evening, Lieutenant George of the Dream SMP.”

A beat.

A sigh.

Two silent voices, both screaming for the same thing.

“You as well, President Soot of L’Manburg.”


	2. How to Build a Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families aren't born, they're made. Or, how Phil Pandel found five kids and decided to begin an unraveling of events that would lead to his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take it back now y'all  
> Do you see that 'non-chronological' tag in the additional tags? Yeah. We're going WAY back. Also this is so much longer than the first chapter why can't I just write normally fuck /j

Phil Pandel was a fighter.

He had fought for everything he had; fought from the ground up, fought to become what he was today, fought and fought until there was nothing left to fight for, then fought for more. Sixteen years of fighting, he’d fought from the moment he was left on someone’s dirty doorstep and sent off to the local jail until he could fend for himself (he _wasn’t_ bitter. He wasn’t bitter at the guards, who had tolerated him until he was ten and then given him the boot. He wasn’t bitter at the assholes who sent a baby to jail for being abandoned. He wasn’t bitter at whoever the End his parents were who left a baby on a doorstep with nothing but a bucket hat and an Elytra), and he’d keep fighting until the day he died. He fought, and he fought alone. He fought for himself.

Phil Pandel was selfish.

Everything he fought for, everything he gained, everything was for him alone. He had no one he wanted to share with, had no one to join him in his fight, so why should he give to people he didn’t even like? The people of the village feared him, the weird boy on the outskirts, who never came to the markets, who never showed up to the yearly Spirit’s Eve celebrations. They feared him, and he disliked them, so why would he even _try_? No, he would simply stay in his little shack just outside the village and keep fighting, thank you very much. He didn’t need anyone ( _didn’t have anyone_ ), didn’t want anyone ( _wanted someone, anyone-_), all he wanted was to sit alone in his shack, nothing sentimental to him other than his Elytra and his hat, and maybe play a music disc every once in a while.

So that’s what he did.

And he ~~_hated_ ~~found it ~~_terrible_~~ thought it was ~~_lonely sad awful lonely lonely lonely lonely_~~

It was alright.

So, he kept fighting. He made a little cottage, just beyond the village walls, and killed monsters. He sold spider eyes and ender pearls and the few enchanted weapons he managed to salvage to the local brewer, and in turn he was given seeds and feed for his animals. The brewer (he didn’t know his name, but he knew his wife was pregnant because she once asked, out of the blue, what Phil thought they should name it. He panicked, stuttered, only managed to say “Er, it-“ before the woman smiled softly, understandingly, and said “That’s a wonderful name.”) didn’t pry into Phil’s life. He knew he wasn’t going to get an answer, so why should he even try? It was good. It was easy.

Then, there was a child.

It was a tiny thing, wrapped up in a red blanket far too big for something of its size, right on his front doorstep. It had sticks in its pale pink hair, mud caking the fluffy black and white lining of the blanket, and a handwritten note clutched and crinkled in its grubby little hand.

_This is Techno._ The note read.

_He’s one, born in the summer of last year._

_He’s yours, now._

Phil looked at the child. It gurgled.

He slammed the door shut.

He was better off alone. A child could only bring him problems—he’d have another mouth to feed, after spending so long alone. He’d have to make a crib, take care of it when it was crying, _he couldn’t do that_ , teach it how to _do things_ , he couldn’t. Even if he’d have something to talk to, something to fight for. Something to love.

He groaned. _Stop that!_ He couldn’t take a baby in, he was barely an adult himself! The kid would be better off somewhere else, somewhere where they could properly care for it. He’d have to send it somewhere, maybe take it to a local shelter or a police station-

Oh.

He opened the door. The baby was crying, staring up at him wetly. He bent down, hovered his hand over it. Waiting. Wondering.

It grabbed one of his fingers in a chubby hand, squeezing tight. Phil smiled. “Techno, huh? Well, kid, you’ve got a strong grip, that’s for sure.” The baby giggled snottily, waving his free arm around. Phil picked him up carefully, and he was warm in his arms. “You’re gonna catch your death out here. Come on, kid, let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

“For the last time, kid. The answer is no.”

“But Dad!” Phil sighed. They had been having this argument for hours now, but Techno was just as stubborn with this as he was with… well, everything. “You said that when I was old enough I could go out into the forest and fight monsters with you!”

“I said that yesterday, Tech.”

“Yeah, well I’m older now!” Techno puffed out his chest, standing on his tiptoes and blowing his light pink hair away from his face. “I’ve been practicing with my sword all day, so now I’m all per-por- _professional_ like you! You _have_ to take me!”

Phil resisted the urge to groan. He had been tired the night before; he had to defend against another raid, and they had Ravagers _and_ Evokers, then he was attacked by a small mob of Drowned (they weren’t even _near_ the ocean, damn it), and their tridents _hurt_. Then, his stupid, tiny, adorable little gremlin of a son had come running out of their cottage, yelling about how cool the ‘big cow things’ were, and how ‘you _have_ to let me help next time!’

All Phil had really wanted to do was get a potion of healing, eat some chicken and go to sleep, and he would do anything to make sure he could do that in the subsequent five minutes before he passed out. Sadly, once a child like Techno begins talking, it’s hard to get them to stop. The only thing Phil remembered of that night was a mumbled promise and a way-too-loud cheer, but he was beginning to suspect he had promised something he hadn’t meant to.

“Tech, you know how I feel about letting you into the forest. How about we take a walk around the market instead?” Phil was getting desperate. He shuddered at the idea of going to the markets; the townsfolk still didn’t like him, and the feeling was mutual. The only people in the village he could truly say he cared about were the Brewers, and their young son, Eret. But taking Techno into the forest? The kid was good with the wooden training sword Phil had given him, almost unnaturally so, but still. The forest was a dangerous place, especially for a child.

“But you promised!” Oh Gods. Oh _fuck_. Techno turned away from him, glowering. “You _always_ say I can do things, and then you say I can’t! It’s not fair! Eret’s dad lets him go out into the, why can’t I?

_Godsdammit. Godsdammit, Godsdammit, Godsdammit-_ “Alright, fine. You can come to the forest with me. But, we can only go for an hour, then you’re coming home and cleaning your bed-area.” Phil almost laughed at how quickly Techno’s face brightened, and a victorious cheer ripped from his throat.

“Yes! Come on, we have to go now! Come _on_!”

_Oh Gods._

* * *

“What’s this one? Where’d it come from? Did you plant it?” Techno was practically vibrating in his too-big boots, bounding forward before being pulled back by his own hand, clutched in Phil’s.

They had been walking for a while. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken Phil barely half an hour to get where they were, but Techno was enthralled by the beauty of the forest. Almost every step he was asking another question (or another three), marvelling the evening light covering the mossy undergrowth in splotches of brightness.

Phil smiled. “That one’s called a spruce tree. It comes from up in the mountains, up North. Another village had written me, asking for help building village walls, ‘cause they kept getting attacked while they were building and the guards weren’t experienced enough. In return, they gave me a bunch of spruce saplings and wood for building.” They had also given Phil various potions to help heal the deep stab wound he had endured from a zombie-turned-village guard (Phil had been in the business long enough to not feel fazed at the horrific turning at the time, but that didn’t mean the guard’s screaming face didn’t show up in his dreams), but Techno didn’t need to know that.

“That’s so cool!” Techno grinned, showing oddly sharp-looking canines. Phil made a mental note of that. _Do kids have sharp teeth? I’ll have to ask the Brewers. Gods, I’m so shit at this._

“Can we go to the mountains? What are the village people like there? The people here are really quiet. I don’t think they like me, ‘cept for Eret. Eret says you named him, is that true? Why did you choose Er-“ Techno cut himself off. He stopped, dead in his tracks, still and silent. Phil frowned. “What’s up, Tech-“

“Shhh,” Techno turned his head, slowly, to face Phil. “There’s someone out there. They’re loud.

Phil’s hand skittered over to his sword on instinct. He watched Techno do the same with his training blade. He pulled Techno closer to him, grasping his hand tightly. “Where?” He whispered. “What can you hear?”

He knew Techno’s ears were weird. There’s only a certain number of hide-and-seek games where your kid finds you because ‘you were breathing too loud!’ until you start to wonder exactly what was going on.

This was the _problem_. The night Phil found Techno, all those years ago ( _Gods_ , Phil was getting old), the note had barely told him anything. Phil didn’t know the kid’s heritage; he didn’t know if people were looking for him, who his real parents were, he had no idea if he was even fully _human_. He had no idea, and that’s what scared him.

He had nightmares about it. Waking up one day to someone banging on his door, telling him that his little boy was a rare breed, a dangerous one. Telling him that it wasn’t safe to stay with him, telling him that they were going to take him away and _deal with_ him. Thanking him for keeping his kid away from anywhere where _he_ could hurt _someone else_ , telling him that Phil would be safe now. Whisking Techno away to the inner city.

Taking his baby away.

“There’s lots of them. They’re shouting. Over there,” Techno pointed at a small cluster of trees, too close together for Phil to see through, covered in vines and leaves that seemed to sway as one huge creature. “Somethin’s crying too. A baby? I think they’re yelling at it, ‘cause it’s crying.”

Phil frowned. Travellers rarely came this far South, and even if they did, the village was barely an hour’s walk from where they were in the forest. Any traveller would just go to the village. “That’s odd, I wonder why they didn’t just go to the village. Maybe one of them is hurt?”

Techno’s face brightened up considerably, and he gasped. “Maybe they’ve been attacked!”

“Don’t look so _happy_ when you say that, kid, oh my Gods.”

“We should help them!” Techno jumped up and down excitedly. “Maybe when they get to the village they’ll say we helped them, ‘n then the people will like us more!”

Phil sighed. He probably should try to help, and Techno was right. If something happened to Phil, he needed someone to be there to take care of Techno, and he couldn’t do that if the whole village hated them. “Alright. We’re going to help them. But,” he held up a hand at Techno’s cheer. “You need to do exactly what I say. We don’t know who these people are, or what they’re doing here. You have to promise to stay near me, and don’t say anything unless I tell you to. Okay?”

Techno nodded gravely. “Promise.”

“Okay. Hold my hand.” Carefully, Phil pulled the vines and branches obscuring their path away, careful to not disturb the trees.

To Phil, the trees and forests of the world were like home. When he was eight and the inmates of the jail stared at him with angry, malicious eyes and snarling faces, he would run to the forest and pretend it shielded him. When he was ten and kicked out, he climbed the trees and ignored the world until he had forgotten why he was so scared and cold and hungry and so, so lonely. The trees gave him his food, his house, they protected him and kept him warm and safe and it almost felt like love. The trees were his home, and would always be his home, and he would protect and fight for them just as hard as he would fight for the village.

They found themselves on the edge of a clearing. Phil could hear the shouting, now. He could see the fire of the travellers.

They weren’t travellers.

Phil cursed. “Raiders. Tech, get behind me. We need to leave.”

“But what about the baby?” Techno said, loudly. Phil shushed him, but looked over to where he was pointing. Sure enough, one of the raiders was holding a child.

“Fuckin’ Nether, do we really need to be carting this thing around the place?” The raider holding the baby said roughly. “Thing stinks like shit, won’t stop crying, ‘n on top of it all we’ve had nothin’ but fish for the past three days!” He shook the baby slightly. It screamed. Techno shied away from the noise, wincing.

“Oi, don’t shake the bastard!” Another raider snatched the baby away. “The Boss wants it alive. Said it’s some high-class moron from over West’s kid, s’posed to have political blood in him or something. I spent hundreds on them explosives we used, if you kill the thing I’m killin’ you. Anyway, it’d probably stop cryin’ if it wasn’t forced to look at your stinkin’ mug.”

A fight broke out between the group. Phil tensed at the sight of the baby being shoved haphazardly into a small wooden cage. It wailed, and Phil heard Techno whimper softly. Phil put his arms on Techno’s small shoulders, gently pushing him further into the undergrowth. “You okay, bud?” He whispered. “You can stay here if you want. I’m going to get the baby, but you don’t need to come with me. You can run home, wait for me there. You know the way.”

Phil was met with a shaky, but firm, shake of Techno’s head. “No. I wanna help, I’m just… they’re scary.”

“It’s okay to be scared, kid. They’re scary. Nether, even I’m scared.”

“You are?”

“Mhm. Whenever I go out, I’m scared. But being scared doesn’t make you bad, it makes you smart. Someone who isn’t scared of anything never wonders what the other side is doing or thinking, and can never learn. Anyway, being scared makes you stronger. In a way, scared is almost like a superpower.” _Fuck yeah, I’m the best parent ever._

_Holy shit I’m taking my kid into battle what the fuck I’m the worst parent ever-_

“I wanna help.” Techno’s eyes were bright with determination and awe. “What can I do?”

Phil paused, thinking. “Well, I don’t want you in the thick of things. You’re still too short for that.”

“I’m not short!”

Phil looked out at the clearing. Eight raiders in total, not a huge group, but not small either. They had obviously been drinking, their now-loud voices slurred and their mugs sloshing, stamping feet disturbing the quiet stillness of the evening. He didn’t have his armour, but he had his bow and his best shield. They were in a circle around the fire, weapons cast aside on a fallen tree, just touching the edge of the darkness. The baby had stopped screaming, and was now whimpering softly in its cage.

He could work with that.

“I’m going to go over the other side of this clearing and distract them. I need you to try and break the baby out of the cage, as quiet as you can, then run back home. Our main priority right now is to get the baby away, fighting these guys comes later. You got it?” Techno nodded again, hand on his training blade (Phil wondered briefly why his fingers almost seemed to wrap around the hilt on instinct, but ultimately decided that was a can of worms he was going to open when he didn’t have eight raiders and a baby on his hands). “Good. When I jump out, you run over to the cage. Stay in the shadows, kid, I believe in you.”

Phil steeled himself. Okay, so they were doing this. Great. Fine. Operation: save a baby. He snuck around, keeping one eye on Techno and another on the raiders, to the other side of the clearing, opposite to the baby’s cage. He took out his bow, breathing in slowly as he pulled.

His aim was true. The raider he hit fell to the ground with a yell, and with one more arrow, he was dead. The others ( _Seven. Seven left_ ) jumped up from their places, hastily running for their weapons. Then, Phil jumped out from his hiding place. “’Ello lads. Wonderful evening, isn’t it?” Out of the corner of his eye, Phil watched Techno scurry out from a bush, over to the cage.

“Who the fuck are you, then? Some wannabe hero?” One of the raiders—the one who shook the baby, Phil noticed with disgust—snarled.

Phil smirked. “Nah, just passing through. Though, these swords here might go for a pretty penny. Good craftsmanship, y’have to give me your smith’s address.”

There was silence for a moment as the raiders processed what he said. Techno stilled for a second as he watched Phil. “Oi!” One of the raiders finally yelled. “You can’t steal our swords!”

They charged. Phil hacked and slashed, managing to kill a few more before they pushed past him and grabbed their swords. Five raiders left, he was surrounded. He tensed. _Didn’t think this through_.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Techno. He had paused, eyes full of fear for Phil, fingers poking through the cage, but not moving. Desperately, Phil stared at him, willing him to stop watching and grab the baby. In his distraction, a lucky raider sliced his arm. _Shit_. He grit his teeth, parrying the next strike, stabbing, not bothering to watch the raider fall. _Four_. The cut was deep, he’d have to stitch himself up later, after making sure Techno cleaned his bed-area and putting him to bed.

Two more raiders fell. _Two left_. They were huge, muscles over muscles and armed to the teeth. They snarled, eyes beady and dark, and Phil realised he was still outrageously outnumbered. He glanced to the other side of the clearing; Techno had stood up, was facing away from the baby, a determined frown set on his face. _The fuck are you doing, kid?_

Techno hand tightened on his sword, and Phil watched him take a deep breath. Then, with a war cry that would have been incredibly scary if it had come from anyone other than an unusually short, pink-haired six-year-old, he charged.

“Tech!”

His sword was made of _wood_. It could slice well, sure. It was fairly sharp, it would do damage. But the raiders’ swords would cut it through like paper. Techno seemed to know this, because he was dodging like his life depended on it (which it did, and wasn’t _that_ a scary thought?), and Phil could only stare wide-eyed because _the kid didn’t get hit once_. He slipped away from the raider’s grasp every time, ducking around him and under the swings of his sword.

Phil hastily parried an attack from his own raider, before assuming a defensive position at Techno’s back. “I,” He grunted, batting away his raider with the flat of his sword. “Am _never_ letting you into the forest again.”

Phil swung around. Techno’s raider, focussed on the quick flashes of pink that Techno had become, never saw his sword coming, directly for his neck. Using his momentum, Phil turned again and struck his own raider.

The clearing was silent, save for the heavy breathing of Phil and his awful, amazing, _stupid_ son.

“You,” Phil turned slowly, facing Techno. “Are grounded.”

“What?” Techno said indignantly. “I helped you! I told you I’m a profe-pr-profess—”

“You could’ve died!” Phil sheathed his sword, just slightly too rough. “Tech, you _can’t_ do things like that. That was dangerous, that was stupid. What would you have done if one of them had hit you? We had a _deal_. You would get the baby, _I_ would deal with the rest.”

“But you were in trouble! I helped! Besides, I’ve been practicing _all_ day, I’m practically a master, like you.” Techno twirled his sword in his hand, grinning. “I probably coulda taken them all down myself. One-versus-eight style.”

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not a master, you _certainly_ aren’t, and I don’t think you could’ve taken them _all_ down. You’re good, kid, I’ll give you that. But you have no technique.”

“Teach me.”

“I- what?”

“Teach me.” Techno was looking up at him seriously. “I wanna help people, like you. I wanna fight monsters.”

“I-“

The two were startled out of their conversation by a loud whine. Phil turned. The baby was still in its cage, curled into a tiny ball in the corner. Phil softened, slowly approaching it.

The child was small. Thin. A bushy tuft of dark hair sprouted from its head, just beginning to curl. It was naked save for a thin diaper, shivering in the cold. It was covered in soot; it looked as if it had been saved from a fire, and Phil shuddered at the thought of what had happened to it. It lifted its head, looked at Phil with teary eyes the colour of the autumn evening they stood in. Phil reached inside the cage, gently took it in his arms, cradling it softly. “Hey, little guy.” It nuzzled into his warmth, letting out a few soft whimpers. “You look like you’ve been through the Nether and back, what happened?”

The baby shifted in his arms, looking up at him unblinkingly. “Where’s your home?” Phil mumbled. The baby turned, cuddled up to him, and fell quickly asleep in his arms. “Oh, okay. Techno?”

“Yeah?” Techno trotted over to them. “What’s he like? Is he okay? Why’s he all dirty? Do you know where he came from? Why did the raiders-“

“Shh, Tech, he’s sleeping. He’s alright, as far as I can see. Just sooty. I don’t know where he came from, or why the raiders wanted him. I also don’t know his name, which might be a problem.”

Techno gasped. “Are we keeping him? Am I gonna have a brother? Is he gonna sleep in my bed-area or yours? Can I name him?”

Phil laughed. “Yes, we’re keeping him, and yes, you’re gonna have a brother. For now, he’ll sleep in mine, but I’ve been meaning to build another room onto the cottage, so we might make some rearrangements. And,” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a name?”

Techno stood on his tiptoes, looking down at the baby. “Yeah,” he said. “Wilbur.”

“Wilbur?” Phil looked at the baby, still asleep in his arms. “Why Wilbur?”

“One of the ladies at the market the other day mentioned that there was a fort in the city, called fort Wilbur. I think he’s pretty strong, for a baby, so he should be called after that.”

Phil smiled, softly. For a moment, the forest seemed warmer, curling protectively around his new little family. “I think it’s a wonderful name.”

Techno smiled at him, Wilbur shifted in his sleep, and Phil vowed to never let anything happen to his boys until the day he died.

It was the middle of the night when Phil was next awoken.

“Wh- fuck, Techno!” Phil jumped at the sight of his son, standing in front of his bed in his ratty old pyjamas, illuminated by the light of the open window behind him. Phil shuffled Wilbur, who was still sleeping soundly, around and turned to him. “You scared me.”

Techno was silent, and that already started ringing bells in Phil’s head. Techno wasn’t talkative, but he was never outright silent. Then, Phil heard a pitiful little sniffle.

“D-do you still love me?”

_Oh._ “Oh, buddy.” Phil sat up in his bed, opening one arm to Techno. He almost dived in, and Phil had to scramble to set Wilbur down before his arms were full of a crying child, wetting the shoulder of his sleeping-shirt. “I jus-just thought – you have Wilbur now, and – and now you don’t need me anymore, but I wanna stay, I don’t wanna leave you, And, and-“

Phil gently shushed him. “Woah kid, you’re alright. It’s all alright. I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever. Sure, we have Wilbur now, and he’s gonna need to have a lot of time put into him, but you’ll always be my Techno, and no one can change that, alright? I’ll always love you.” Phil put a hand to Techno’s cheeks, wiping away his tears.

Techno hiccupped. “Can I- can I stay here?”

“Sure, kid. Come in.” Phil lifted Techno up, swinging him around and depositing him on the other side of the bed. Wilbur made a small noise, and Techno looked at him with an unreadable expression. Then, he cuddled closer to him, letting out a small breath.

Phil smiled. “Night, Techno.”

“Night, dad.”

For a while, things were as normal as they could be. Techno began getting swordsmanship lessons from one of the local fighting groups (Phil respected them; they had asked him often if he wanted to join their group, ‘ _for safety’_ , they had said. Phil, still slightly shaky at the concept of _people_ , politely declined, but still had amicable conversations with them if he ever saw one of them at the market), and they told him he was learning faster than they’d ever seen.

“Your kid must have fighter blood, ‘Za,” They’d say. “He’s about as well acquainted with swords as he is with his own fingers.” They called him ‘Little Blade’. Phil thought it fit.

Techno had had a growth spurt; he was tall enough to reach some of the higher shelves of their newly-built kitchen, and his sharp little teeth just kept growing. The Brewers had said that no, children weren’t supposed to have what were essentially very small tusks, nor were they supposed to have naturally pink hair, or such sensitive ears. But Techno seemed happy enough, so Phil let him be. For now, it wasn’t a problem, so it didn’t need addressing.

Wilbur was also living relatively happily. He was still skinny, no matter what Phil fed him. He was often quiet, and he barely cried. Often Phil would be caught in a staring contest with him; whenever Wilbur didn’t want to do something, he had a penchant for staring, straight and unblinking, into Phil’s eyes until Phil cracked.

He also had a penchant for mischief.

By the end of the few months that Wilbur had been a part of their little family, Phil had child-proofed every door, window, and the fireplace, and had grown accustomed to picking Wilbur up before he had the chance to commit whatever heinous crime he was about to commit.

* * *

The day their family grew again, Phil was cooking dinner. He had already dropped Techno off at training, and he had managed to catch a number of good deals at the village market.

“Honestly, I think it’s fascinating. The cities are all huge, but they barely have any output of material or wealth. You’ve got to wonder what they’re keeping for themselves.”

“Eugh.” Wilbur wasn’t a particularly avid listener, nor did he understand what was being said to him, however he assumed a sound was what Phil was looking for, so he made one.

“Mmm, I agree. Someone really should check up on them, just to see what they’re doing.”

“Dad! Dad, you need to come!” A shout came from outside the cottage.

Phil hurriedly blew out the flame of his cooker, turning around. “Tech? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Techno came running into the kitchen, puffing and red-faced. “Dad, you need to come quick! The hunters – hi Wilbur!”

“Ouff.”

“The hunters found something! They told me to come get you.” Techno puffed out his chest a little, grinning. “Said it was really important.”

Phil sighed. He really wanted to finish dinner before he had to begin preparing for his hunt. _Oh well._ “Alright, give me a minute.” He put away his half-prepared food, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. He made his way over to his bed-are, grabbing Wilbur from the floor on the way, and grabbed his sword and the small bag he had made. “I need to take Wilbur, is that okay? There wasn’t any fighting or anything?”

“Not when I left.”

“Alright then, let’s go.”

They walked for a few minutes, Techno growing more and more restless with every step. When they finally got to the hunters’ camp, he was practically jumping up and down.

The hunters were all crowded together in a group. One looked up, and waved them over. “Hey ‘Za, hey little Blade, and hello Wilbur!”

“Eh.” Wilbur was practically falling asleep in the afternoon sun, but he knew the man wanted a noise, so he gave him one.

Phil looked at the hunter. “What’s wrong?”

The hunter grinned at him. “Always ready for trouble, aren’t you ‘Za? Don’t worry, no one’s dead… That we know of… Yet.”

“How reassuring.”

“It’s waking up!” A hunter called from the middle of the group. They parted for Phil and Techno, and in the centre of the circle there was nothing but a tiny wicker basket.

Phil inched closer. “What is it?”

“We found it on the edge of the river. The one with all the salmon in it? I’ve never seen a hybrid quite like it.”

Phil suddenly realised there was something in the basket. Tiny, pointed ears poked out from under the folds of the blanket the child was lying on. It was sleeping, breathing quietly.

Phil looked at the hunters. “A child?”

“A _hybrid_ child.”

Phil stared at him. Hybrids were rare—he had never met one, not counting whatever Techno was, and for a long time he doubted he ever would. But, the child was there, far too small to be human. He yawned, shifting in his sleep, nestling further under the covers so that only his russet hair and ears could be seen.

“Could you not find a mother? They usually don’t stray far.”

“Oh, we found the mother alright. Or, at least what was left of her.” The hunter—Eric, his name was, Eric Fund—sighed. “We don’t know what to do, ‘Za. None of us are equipped enough to take in a _normal_ child, let alone a hybrid. Nether, I can barely deal with little George already.”

Phil sighed. “You want me to take him in.” It wasn’t a question.

Eric rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, you were the first one we could think of. You took in Wil, and you took in the Blade-“

“Am I gonna have another brother? Cool!” Techno cheered. The child yipped sleepily, turning itself over and flattening its ears.

Phil cooed. “Alright, fine. I’ll take the kid in.” _Gods, I’m going to need to add another few rooms to the cottage. Maybe if Wilbur and Techno share…_ “Do you have a name?”

Eric looked down. “The mother was dead before we found her. The little thing’s nameless.”

“Not the first time. Tech, what do you think?”

Wilbur decided he had had enough of being ignored. “F’ndee!” He shouted forcefully. The men laughed at him. How dare they.

“Alright,” Phil chuckled. “No need to get annoyed, Wil. We can listen to you,” he smiled slightly. “Fundy. Unconventional, but I like it.”

Eric clapped once. “Alright then, that’s settled. Little Blade, you go off now, help your father with the dinner. Wish my kid’d help me.”

Phil grinned, picking up Fundy’s basket. “It would be a cold day in the Nether before you got this little gremlin to help with dinner.”

“I help with dinner all the time!”

The hunters laughed. Fundy curled up in his sleep. Phil smiled, and hugged his three sons closer. Wilbur assumed he wanted him to make a noise, so he made one.

* * *

Things slowly began to change through the next few years. Slowly, peacefully, things began to twist, forming new ideas that slotted in with their lifestyle like puzzle pieces. Phil loved every second of it.

Techno was growing into a fine young man. At sixteen years old he was already one of the best fighters of the entire village, and he and Phil were suddenly thrust into the limelight of village protectors; Phil found himself often having a small, cheering crowd of children watching from the city walls as he an Techno fought monsters.

Techno’s features had also matured. His face lost the small amount of baby fat clinging to it, revealing sharp edges behind sharper eyes. His teeth, too, had sharpened into tusks, matching the way his ears grew into what seemed to be pig’s ears. His voice had dropped significantly, giving way for the monotone, dry sense of humour Techno adopted.

“Honestly, kid,” Techno said, deadpan. “I have no fucking clue what you’re saying.”

Wilbur had also changed, but not nearly as drastically. He had grown like a vine; at the rate he was growing, he would be taller than most of the adults in the village in just a few more years. His hair hadn’t changed, still the curly, stylishly-messy mop it had been when he was a baby, and his penchant for crime had only grown since. He still knew when people wanted him to make noises, however the noises he made at twelve were far more sophisticated than the ones he made at three (they were far more sophisticated for any twelve-year-old, for that matter. Phil tried not to think about that, just like he tried not to think about the fact that the most human-looking of all his sons had an uncanny ability to sing until you forgot why you were angry at him. Wilbur was definitely human. Probably.)

Fundy, however? He was still just as quiet, just as calm, as when Phil found him. His tail had grown in, as had his ears, and now there was no hiding that Fundy was definitely a hybrid. Techno was easier to hide; his ears blended in well with his hair, and his tusks weren’t _too_ noticeable. Fundy was calculating, but the eleven-year-old seemed laid back when he wasn’t angry. He enjoyed taking walks around the forest, he had just left for one before Phil had gone to talk with some of the people in the village. Phil let him take his walks – he never brought back any trouble, so why wouldn’t he?

“What don’t you understand? The guy practically wanted me dead.” Wilbur pulled his beanie further over his head. “I just told him about a couple things I saw him talking about once, and _suddenly_ he walked away like I had done nothing! How is that my fault?”

“Oh my Gods,” Techno groaned. “You _blackmailed_ a cop?”

“No! I just told him I’d tell his wife that he’d cheated if he arrested me!”

“Fuckin’ Nether, he was gonna _arrest_ you?” Techno pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “What the fuck could a _twelve-year-old_ do to get arrested?”

“Who got arrested?” Phil walked into their cottage, done with his shopping and chatting, only to hear the last of Techno’s shout. A guilty pair of eyes and a smugly-amused Techno turned to look at him.

Phil sighed at the look on two. “What happened.”

“Wilbur got arrested!”

“I didn’t kill anyone this time!”

“ _This time?_ ”

“I’m joking.”

“Oh my Gods, that’s a terrible joke, Wil.”

“It’s a better joke than your face.”

“I’m gonna murder you.”

“Boys!” Phil cut in before his dumbass, stupid, gift-to-his-world sons could start fighting again. “Quiet. Wilbur, tell me what happened.”

Wilbur looked suddenly sheepish. “Well, y’know George?”

“I do.”

“Well, uh, he said that Schlatt ‘n’ I wouldn’t be able spend an hour in the plaza fountain without being spotted-“

“Oh my Gods.”

“It wasn’t illegal or anything!” Wilbur said quickly. “The worst thing to happen to us was we got wet! But then this police officer came up and started yelling at us, and he said he was gonna arrest us for ‘property damage’—which is stupid ‘cause we didn’t even break anything!—so I kind of-“

“Don’t tell me you sang at him.”

“I didn’t! I just… I told him I knew he was cheating on his wife…”

One day, Phil hoped he would be able to live his life _without_ being constantly told that his young children were either a) threatening adults, b) threatening police officers, c) fighting hordes of monsters by himself with nothing but a half-broken shield and an axe (Techno was grounded for three months after _that_ incident) or d) doing whatever Fundy did in his spare time.

Today was not that day.

“What have I said about blackmail?”

Wilbur sighed. “No blackmail.”

“And what have you done?”

“…Blackmailed.”

Phil shook his head, but before he could answer, there was a small knock at the door. _Huh, we barely ever get visitors,_ Phil thought. _Wonder what’s wrong_.

Phil gave Wilbur one last look (making Wilbur wince and look at his shoes, and making Techno snicker), and he turned back to the door. Outside stood Fundy, looking up at him silently.

Phil frowned, confused. “Funds, you know you live here? You don’t need to knock-“ Phil suddenly realised Fundy had knocked because he couldn’t open the door, because his hands were full. Then he realised his hands were full because he had his arms wrapped around the shoulders of two kids.

“Fundy, what-“ Phil began. Fundy interrupted him.

“They’re mine now.”

One of the children, blond-haired and lanky, grinned up at him. “Hello, you must be Phil! Fundy’s told us about you. I’m Tommy, fighter extraordinaire, alpha male, and totally independent. I’m ten.” Phil noticed how his voice cracked on the word ‘independent’, how his smile grew suddenly tight, and his heart softened.

“Hello Tommy. And who’s your other friend?”

The other boy glanced at him, before quickly looking away. “’M Tubbo. I’m his brother.”

Immediately, Phil saw the differences between the two boys. Other than the physical differences—where Tommy was tall and light-haired, Tubbo was darker, shorter—the two held themselves differently. Tommy stood straight, puffing his chest out (Phil knew the feeling. When he was younger, he’d often make himself seem bigger, too, because the inmates would pick on him less if he wasn’t scrawny) and weaving an air of confidence around him. Tubbo, however, seemed to shrink in on himself slightly, make himself invisible. His eyes were constantly shifting, moving, waiting for something or someone to jump out and attack. He was tense; both of them were, and Phil politely ignored the way they were shaking.

“They need a place to stay.” Fundy stared at him, unblinking. “They’re staying here.”

“We don’t need your help, though!” Tommy blurted. “We’re fine on our own! I can take care of Tubbo and me, all by myself, I’ve been doing it for years!”

Tubbo looked at Phil again quickly. “We would- we would appreciate, uh, having somewhere to stay, though. Just for a while. Only a night? Actually, never mind, it’s fine, we can-“

_Oh, Godsdammit. Not again._ Phil felt his heart melting at the two boys, both trying to frantically convince him that _no, they were fine, they just needed a lot of help_. “Boys. It’s alright. You can stay here as long as you need, our family will always be open to you.” He stepped aside, out of the doorway, letting the three in.

Fundy dragged them inside without a word. “This is the living room. Over there is the kitchen, and Techno ‘n’ Wil’s room. You’ll be sharing a room with me, probably.” He stopped in front of Wilbur and Techno, who were still arguing. Tommy stumbled slightly. “That’s Techno. He likes fighting and stuff, but he hates people. He’ll probably like you two, though.” Techno looked at Phil quizzically. Phil shrugged. Techno rolled his eyes. “Another _two_?”

Wilbur snickered. “At this rate you’re gonna adopt the whole village, Dad.”

“That’s Wilbur. He plays guitar, and he always makes me do his chores even though I’m only a year younger.”

The two boys waved at Techno and Wilbur shyly. Phil smiled softly. “Well, now that we’re all acquainted, how about some dinner? While _you_ -“ He glared playfully at Wilbur, “Were busy disrupting the entire village with Schlatt, I was talking to his parents. They gave me a really good casserole recipe, and now I have _five_ pairs of hands to help me!”

Five young voices groaned. Phil chuckled.

* * *

“They’re not gonna just be staying the night.”

Phil jumped. Fundy was always quiet, but he doubted he would ever get used to his random tendency to appear behind you out of thin air. “What?”

“They’re gonna stay forever. They don’t have parents.” Fundy’s little face was serious. “You can’t send them away.”

Phil sighed. “I’m not going to send them away, bud.”

“Are you gonna send any of us away?”

Fundy’s voice was small. Phil’s heart broke.

He knelt down in front of him. “Fundy, you listen to me, alright? I’m not going to send any of you away. When I was younger, I didn’t expect to have you all in my life. But now? I wouldn’t change a thing, not for anything.

Fundy bit his lip. “Not even for a billion dollars?”

Phil smiled. “Not even for a billion dollars.”

He heard a sniffle from his door. “Who’s that? It’s alright, you can come out.” What Phil didn’t expect was for Wilbur, Tommy _and_ Tubbo to come out.

Tubbo was crying. “Y-you’re really not gonna send us away? We can stay?”

Phil’s heart clenched. He didn’t know what Tommy and Tubbo had been through, but they were obviously far more affected by whatever it was than they wanted to let on.

His boys were so _brave_. Every one of them had gone through so much, from the moment they were born until that moment.

He knew Techno and Wilbur both had nightmares; Techno’s were similar to Phil’s, filled with the rotting bodies of people he dreamt of being unable to save, cursed with remembering everything his blade had ever touched. He knew it haunted him, had been told of the rush of white-hot anger and power Techno felt thrumming under his skin whenever he touched his sword, knew how much Techno feared himself. He had watched Techno carefully set his emotions behind a screen of easy grace, and Phil felt pangs in his heart when he remembered how _young_ Techno pretended not to be.

Wilbur’s nightmares were fiery, flashes of heat and pain and fear that he was too young to remember the sight of, but old enough to remember the taste and the smell and the fear. He knew Wilbur thought about his real parents, thought about who they were, why the raiders took him. When he had told him—he needed to tell him, after the ‘why do I look human when both of my brothers don’t’ fiasco—Wilbur had been still, crying silent tears, and Phil often wondered just how much he remembered of the day his life was taken away in one fiery blaze.

And Fundy? The kid _hated_ how he looked. Gods, he was only eleven, but the amount of speciesism he endured from passing-through travellers seemed almost unbearable. The village-folk were kind enough—Techno was a hybrid too, and he protected the village—but the traders and travellers treated Fundy like trash. He had seen the way Fundy hesitated to go on his walks when he knew there were travellers in town. There had been one too many times when Phil had to step in because bigoted assholes were bullying his _eleven-year-old_ son, pushing him to the ground and spitting curses.

In those moments, Phil knew just how far he’d go to protect his kids.

“I’m never going to send _any_ of you away. Ever. Wherever you are, I’ll always be there to protect you. Promise. Anyway, what would I do without my boys?”

Wilbur scrubbed at his face roughly. “Prob’ly get dinner done faster.”

Phil laughed, gently taking his hand away. “Nah, you all help me do it in record time. Now, come on. I think tonight calls for a little sleepover, huh? Hop in, you lot.” Phil smiled warmly at the door. “You too, Techno.”

“How the Nether did you know I was there?” Techno emerged from behind the door, voice scratchy with emotion. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to look blasé. “I’m fine, by the way.”

“Call it father instincts. Now get in here.”

Techno groaned, but still made his way to Phil’s bed just too eagerly. “Do I have to?” He visibly relaxed as soon as he was on the bed.

Phil grinned, blowing out his bedside candle. “Kids, I want you to remember. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the five of you. Not a single thing I wouldn’t fight, not a single mountain I wouldn’t climb, if I could ensure your safety.”

“We love you, Dad.”

“I love you too. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight Tommy.”

“Goodnight Wilbur.”

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

“Night, Fundy.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Tommy.”

“Goodnight, Tech-“

“Shut _up_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ily


	3. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is silence in L'Manburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Fundy has a panic attack in this. Be safe y'all!

The silence howled through L’Manburg. Fundy was in his room, and he was thinking.

All his life, Fundy had been the quiet one. Not by fault of his brothers, that’s just how he was. He preferred the silence; the calm, quiet nights in their shack, after Dad and Techno had come back from their hunts, when Wilbur had tired Tommy out, and when Tommy had tired Tubbo out, and when the only noise would be Wilbur playing his guitar (he never played anymore. There was always something he needed to do, plans to make, the stress of an entire country on his back), and his soft voice singing his newest song. They were Fundy’s favourite moments, because the silence always felt as if it would quite like to wrap you up and lull you into a deep, serene sleep.

No one in L’Manburg slept serenely anymore.

There was still silence, of course. L’Manburg was often shrouded in quiet, but the air in L’Manburg was different to the calm of their old shack. Their nights in the shack were warm, even on the coldest winter nights where the only heat Fundy could feel was from their tiny fireplace and his family around him. They glowed like the slivers of moonlight in the forest that Dad had always loved; they rippled slowly, swaying, flickering, warm to the touch. The quiet of the shack was home.

L’Manburg wasn’t silent like that. L’Manburg was silent in a _deafening_ way. It felt squeezing, chokingly tangible. It latched cold, spindly fingers into Fundy’s skin and filled his head with a dark, viscous fluid that made his ears ring and his breath catch. It stole his breath from his lungs, swallowed him in a wave that he could never get out of, and he could never come up for air no matter how much he clawed for a way up, out, away from the _tooloudtooloudtooloud_ silence that would swallow him, had already swallowed Techno and had already swallowed Dad and had already swallowed Eret-

_He’s not dead._

Fundy frowned at himself, steadied his breathing. Sat up in his bed. _Eret’s not dead. He’s not dead, he’s just gone._

He clutched at his chest, suppressed the animalistic whine building in his throat. He was _fine_. He was fine, and Tommy and Tubbo were fine, and Niki was fine, and Wilbur was fine, and Eret was nothing more than a graceless, ruthless, _too loud_ traitor.

Eret was noisy, but not in the way that the days in the village were. The days in the village, when the summer dew moistened the ground and made the grass glow in the sunlight, were the days Fundy spent with the others. Back when Wilbur, Dream, Sapnap and George were practically inseparable, before the fighting and the war and before Dream’s lies. Back when Techno and Eret would carry them—they were the strongest, and the oldest—through the forest and laugh. Back when Fundy would always be pulled into a conversation, would never be left alone with his thoughts. Those days were noisy, but in the same way that summer rain on tin roofs were. Idyllic. Peaceful.

Eret wasn’t noisy like the days in the forest, anymore. Eret was noisy like an explosion; hot, sweltering, hurling debris and dirt and chunks of crumbling rock at you from every direction. He was noisy like TNT, like the flick of a switch that lead to the end. He was noisy like the sound of pistons activating, noisy like the sound of swords hitting armour and the yells of his brothers of _‘it’s a trap! Get out!’_ , noisy like eleven words, spoken roughly, unforgivingly, by someone Fundy had considered a friend.

_Down with the revolution, boys. It was never meant to be._

“Funds?”

Fundy jumped, hand flying to his hair. _It’s Tommy. It’s Tommy, it’s fine, you’re fine. You’re safe._ “Tommy.” Fundy’s voice was quiet, a whisper that he couldn’t raise.

Tommy’s voice was sympathetic. “Were you dreaming about him again?”

“No.”

Tommy sighed. “Well, if you weren’t, neither was I.”

(They didn’t say anything about who _he_ was. It could have been any of them, really. It could have been all of them.)

The silence came back. Fundy wanted to scream. “Where’s Wilbur?”

“Still in his office. Been there since this morning, dunno if he’s even eaten anything today.”

“ _Nether_ , what time is it?”

“Didn’t check. Late.” Tommy shifted to the balls of his feet, standing awkwardly in Fundy’s doorway. “D’you think he’s alright?”

_No,_ Fundy wanted to say. He wanted to say it, and say it again, and scream it until his voice was hoarse and he couldn’t scream any more. _I don’t think he’s okay. I don’t think any of us are okay_.

Instead, he simply said, “Where’s Tubbo?”

Tommy paused, looked at him sharply. He had always been smarter than Fundy gave him credit for, and it had always been difficult to get things past him. Regardless, he shrugged. “Was sleeping, when I checked. He got kept up last night.”

“Oh.” _He got kept up_. The phrase had been used as long as Fundy could remember, had been used by all of them. There were some things that were too raw to say out loud, things that left scars and marks that were still painful to touch. Not nightmares, necessarily, although they were often present in them all. Just… things. Things that kept you up. Things you didn’t want to talk about, not just yet. “Is he alright?”

Fundy watched Tommy. Watched the way he hesitated, watched the way he looked away, and he knew what Tommy wanted to say. Knew what it meant when all he said was “Are you?”

Fundy sat up, patted the space of bed next to him. Tommy moved slowly, cautiously in a way that a sixteen-year-old shouldn’t have to be, sat stiffly. Fundy closed his eyes, shielding himself from the sight of his baby brother, so torn up. “I’m not gonna say I’m fine. I’m not gonna say we’re gonna _be_ fine.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then what do you want?” Fundy turned to Tommy, his face suddenly burning with an emotion he couldn’t even begin to describe. “Do you want the truth? Because, fuck, the truth is scary. I’m scared, Toms. I’m really scared, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m _sorry_.”

There were tears in Tommy’s eyes. There were tears in Fundy’s too. “It’s so quiet, all the time,” he whispered. “It’s so silent.”

Time was still. Tommy stared at Fundy, rigid and brittle, pale. Then, he lunged forward.

“It’s-it’s so _much_ , I _can’t_ -“ a hiccup, a sob. Tommy shuddered in Fundy’s hold. “Wil’s trying to protect us, and I don’t know what to _do_ because he’s working so hard and I’m such a _shit_ right-hand man and he hasn’t slept in days and I don’t wanna sleep ‘cause of the nightmares ‘n’ Tubbo hasn’t been sleeping either and-“

Fundy hugged Tommy closer to him, shushing him gently. “Hey. Hey, it’s alright.” _It’s not. It’s not alright. Stop saying it’s alright._ “Breathe, Tommy, look at me. We’re gonna get through this. It’s just like the games in the woods, yeah? It’s just like how things would get hard back then, and then we’d all come together and fix the problem. Sure, we don’t have… we don’t have some of the people we had back them, but we still have each other. We still have Wilbur and Tubbo, yeah?”

Except Tubbo was quiet. Quieter than Fundy, now, quieter than he’d ever been. No more fun facts, no more lengthy explanations of anything and everything, no more little spiels of information. Tubbo wasn’t really Tubbo anymore, he was really just staying out of his older brothers’ way. He was a messenger, a worker. They all still loved him—of _course_ they did—but Fundy could see him pulling away, watched as he distanced himself from the war, and through that, from them. Tubbo was never meant for war. But here they were.

And Wilbur? Wilbur was slipping. Maybe it had been too long, maybe Dream and George and Sapnap and everyone couldn’t see the tension behind the straight-as-an-arrow posture Wilbur always held himself to. Maybe they didn’t see the way his shoulders shook with the pressure. But Fundy was quiet. Fundy watched, and Fundy saw, and Fundy knew more things that people gave him credit for (they seemed to forget he wasn’t just the seven-year-old shadow he was ten years ago). Fundy had only seen Wilbur truly snap once before; Fundy had seen him fall from the pedestal he was constantly forced on—he was the oldest, now, he had to be the protector and the leader and he was really only nineteen, but his mind was so much older, so much more helpless—and Fundy never wanted to see it again.

They might still be with them, but Fundy didn’t know if they still had them.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, we do.” Tommy lurched away suddenly, puffing his chest out and rubbing his eyes roughly. “I know, I know they’re still here. I’m fine.” He stood up – Fundy politely ignored the tremor of his hands. “I’d better go. President Soot’ll want me with him soon.”

“When did you start saying that?”

Tommy paused. “What?” He looked at Fundy strangely, halfway through the door.

“Why’d you call Wilbur _President Soot_?”

Fundy knew what the title meant. He knew the power a change in title held, had seen firsthand how they changed people. _For Tommy to call him_ that, _without even realising what he was doing, what he was implying-_

The tension in the room between the two was palpable; It latched its fingers into Fundy’s skin and filled his head with the liquid and caught his breath like the silence he hated. Tommy stared at him.

“That’s who he is.”

Fundy’s door slammed shut. He was swallowed by the silence and the dark.

When Fundy left his room again later, when the morning bathed L’Manburg in light, the silence was thicker. Tommy and Tubbo were huddled around the small communal table. They were crying.

“What happened?” Fundy was silently passed a note, written hastily, scrawled and far too heavy in his hands. The silence grew to a roar as he read, engulfing Fundy completely.

A breath, a beat. Fundy spoke. “When’d he leave?”

“Early this morning.”

“No.”

_Fundy. Tubbo. Tommy._

_I might not come back from this one._

“He didn’t. He _can’t_ just leave, not like this, not like _them_ , he _can’t_!”

“Fundy-“

_Don’t come looking for me. This war has gone on far too long, I need to finish it._

_Don’t come looking for me. This was my decision to make._

“We need to find him, fuck the note. He needs our help-“

“Fundy, please. We can’t- we can’t lose you too.”

_Freedom or death. I stand by what I said. Let’s hope Dream will too._

And Wilbur was always too self-sacrificing for his own good, wasn’t he?

The silence howled throughout L’Manburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lik an subsrib


	4. Freedom or Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur Soot walks to his death. On his way, he reflects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot time! Plot time! Plot time! Plot time!

The autumn leaves cracked under Wilbur’s boot as he walked. Distantly, he wondered if the Sky Gods were laughing.

He had known about the Taken long before anyone actually told him who they were. Back when he was only a child, and the world was brighter, he already knew his place in the world. He was one of them, a pawn of the Gods. A doll in the ineffable game the Sky Gods forced him to play.

_(The dream was dark. There was nothing, a single block and an endless void and the cold wind rushing through his hair. A voice._

_‘You’re our little plaything, Wilbur. Our little toy. Entertain us.’_

_Hours passed. He sat on the block in the sky, too scared to move lest he be ripped away by the wind into the void, and shivered. He was only a child; he was too young. He wanted his father. He wanted his brothers. He wanted to leave._

_‘Here, little plaything. Make do.’_

_A pair of boots. Mocking. He put them on anyway._

_They gave him a fish. He named it, built a tiny little bowl on his island for it to swim in, sat with it and talked to it as if it was the only thing he’d ever known. He didn’t know if it listened, but he knew_ they _were listening. They always were._

_He wondered if he had always been condemned to this life; had he been born to suffer? Was his life’s goal to die, a shaking child in an endless sky, alone and destined to be the Sky Gods’ greatest sport?_

_He watched as they whisked Milo away into the void. He cried as Milo died. When they laughed, he listened._

_‘That was very funny, plaything. Your pain pleases us.’_

_Phil had always said that Gods were Man’s most ingenious inventions, but the longer they kept him, trapped and caged, the less he remembered who invented who._

_He began to forget his old life. Slowly, the faces of his friends, his brothers, his father seeped out of his memory. Jim Jum was dead—the traitorous bastard—but there was still Milo, and that’s all he needed. He was cold, but he had his cobblestone machine, so he could finally build Milo a big enclosure for him to swim around in._

_Gradually, he forgot. He forgot Tommy’s laugh, and Tubbo’s smile. He forgot the colour of Fundy’s ears. He forgot the way to Techno’s grave. He forgot his father’s name. The Sky Gods still gave him things, but he didn’t need them anymore. He was independent, and the Sky Gods couldn’t do anything about it._

_‘Is that really what you believe, little plaything? Oh, you are surely mistaken.’_

_He woke up cold.)_

Phil had been the first to properly tell him. A prophet had come to town, one day late in the spring, had been standing on a wooden box in the middle of the marketplace and was ranting about the End and the Void and the Sky Gods and the Endless Archives, words that Wilbur didn’t understand.

( _Tubbo was shaking. “Th-the Archives, they-they-I need to go back, I-“_

_“Tubbo, breathe. You’re fine, you’re at home. The Archives don’t exist anymore.”_

_“Then I have failed!” He was thrashing in Phil’s arms. “I have failed my duty to the Archives! I have failed, I have f-failed…”_

_“Shh, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”_

_Wilbur had understood, right away. He was still cold, after all. He still felt the bite of the wind and still heard the mocking laughing of Man’s most ingenious creation. It was only natural that Tubbo also remembered how it felt to realise you were nothing, if not the champion of your tormentors._ )

Fundy had been the first to ask, as was often the case. “Dad, what is that man saying?”

Phil had sighed. “You needn’t worry, Fundy. It’s just an old superstition.”

“It’s not a superstition.” Tubbo had looked ill. Wilbur really should have realised he had been Taken sooner. “It’s true. The Archives, a-all of it.”

( _There was a kind of agreement between Wilbur and Tubbo, after the first few weeks of Wilbur refusing to sleep until he passed out, for fear of it happening again. It was silent, but the Taken were often told to have been able to communicate without really speaking. The sort of solidarity, understanding, that comes from seeing someone with the same all-encompassing pain behind their eyes as yours._

 _They never mentioned it. But it was always there._ )

Phil had looked at Tubbo strangely, then. Worried. “Tubbo, I want you to look at me. Actually, all you kids look at me.” They had been having a day with all their friends; their family was there ( _minus Techno_ , Wilbur remembered with a pang), along with their other close friends. Eret was also there, helping Phil look after them all. “Kids, I don’t want you to believe anything that man says, okay? It’s all fearmongering, none of it’s true. The people who worship the Sky Gods are a cult. A murderous one.”

Tubbo had flinched. Eret had looked away. Wilbur hadn’t noticed, too caught up in the sudden chill that completely enveloped him. He knew now.

( _He was always cold. The island had been in the sky, and the sharp, biting wind seemed to have left a constant scar on Wilbur’s skin. He was always shivering, always cold. When he and Schlatt were put into the drowning world and left to die, it got worse._

_When he and Schlatt were put into the burning world and left to kill each other, the coldness turned into an icy fire that burned and froze.)_

Dream—he had been only a few years older than Wilbur—had cocked his head to the side (Wilbur wondered if Dream was thinking of him, now. Would he regret what was about to happen? Would he care? Would Wilbur, as he was dying at the arrow of one of his best friends – his enemy, see the image of this _young_ Dream imprinted into the backs of his eyelids?). “But all religions are somewhat based in truth, right? I mean, it can’t all be fake.”

Phil looked grim. “Well… some say in the Old Times, before there was peace in the Overworld, the Sky Gods would take certain people to be their champions. The Taken, they were called. Dunno why. They were chosen at birth, condemned with the blessing of the Gods. They were the Overworld’s best people. And it’s worst people. Heroes, leaders, supporters. Tyrants. Traitors.” And really, Wilbur should’ve known then and there. He should’ve known, but he didn’t.

( _“Wilbur.”_

_Wilbur jumped. Eret was standing in the door of his office in L’Manburg, face ashy and almost-pained and sad. “Eret, you scared me. What’s the matter?”_

_He didn’t look Wilbur in the eyes. “Do you remember when Phil first told us about the Taken? About who they would become in the world?”_

_“Of course. Leaders, heroes.”_

_“Y-yeah. Leaders and heroes. Tyrants and…” He looked guilty. Wilbur hadn’t understood why. “Just… keep it in mind.”)_

He shook his head roughly, walking out of the gates of L’Manburg. No time to look back on the past, now. _Freedom or death_.

Dream was not a kind man. He had been, when they were children, Wilbur supposed. But things changed, and Dream was ambitious, and then the First Battle, Dream’s lies, destroyed any semblance they had of a friendship.

( _Dream was grinning, Sapnap and George at his sides as they showed Wilbur the plans. “You see, Wilbur? We can make the world better! We’ll fix everything, and make everything good! You can help us!”_

_“I-I don’t know…”_

_Dream’s grin turned softer, then. “Don’t worry, Wilbur. It’s okay that you’re scared. You know, you_ are _only fifteen, and we’re all older, so…”_

_“Hey! I can help! I’m not a baby! Just… I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Dad always told me not to hurt other people without reason.”_

_“Don’t worry, Wil. We won’t ruin your father’s memory for you. No one will get hurt, I promise.”_ )

The place they were meeting was near the river, a huge tree standing alone at the riverbed. It was the same spot Dream had duelled Tommy.

Dream had chosen the location. Cruelty wasn’t a good look on him.

Wilbur was alone for a few moments, taking in the spot he was going to die. He had accepted it; he had _banked_ on it.

“You’re a terrible shot, Wilbur,” Dream had said the day before. “You always have been. You aren’t your brother. You can’t beat me; not when we were kids, not ever.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Dream.” He had taken a breath, then. “We duel. If I win, I ask for in-“

“Independence, yes, I know. But you will not win. Surely you must know that?”

“If you win, L’Manburg will fall. The war will end with you victorious. All I ask is that you let my brothers free.”

( _Mr. Brewer was talking, but Wilbur had long stopped listening. He only needed to hear the first sentence to know that his entire world was completely shattered._

_“I’m so sorry Wilbur. Your father is dead.”_

_He refused Mr. Brewer’s offer for help. He took up a job, then two, and then suddenly he was working every evening and five times in the mornings and in the in-between he was comforting a scared Tubbo, healing a sick Fundy, entertaining a bored Tommy, and he spent his fourteenth birthday at work and hungry and missing a man who he wasn’t even able to bury.)_

Dream had raised an eyebrow, partially hidden behind his mask. “Those are some very high stakes. You do understand that you _can’t_ win, right? If I agree to this, L’Manburg _will_ fall.”

“I don’t care about L’Manburg.”

Dream was silent. Still. Then, slowly, he had chuckled. “Then why keep this ruse? Why pretend your _country_ is anything more than a distant wish, a fruitless ambition?”

A breath left Wilbur of its own volition. “Everything I did was to keep my brothers safe.”

“ _Bullshit._ ” Dream snarled. “Your brothers were completely safe before _you_ left us. They would’ve stayed safe if you hadn’t.”

“You and I both know that to be a lie, _Dream_.”

“I would have protected you!” He slammed his hand against the tree. It shook with a superhuman strength. “I would have protected you _all_ , but you _left_ us! You left _me_!”

“You were unstable!”

( _Dad had been sixteen when he found Techno._

_Techno had been sixteen when he was murdered._

_Wilbur had been sixteen when his best friends destroyed his village, burned his people and disparaged his father’s name. And he had been sixteen when he decided to stand and fight._ )

Wilbur had raked a hand through his hair. “You were unstable,” he repeated. “I didn’t want to. Fuck, I never wanted to. You, Sapnap, George, Bad and Skeppy and all the rest, we were as much a family as my brothers. But then you started the SMP. You destroyed your own gods-damned village-“

“I _improved_ it.”

“You _blew it up_!”

“It was necessary!” Wilbur had been able to feel the glare through Dream’s mask. “I made sure everyone got out, didn’t I? No one was hurt! I just- we needed to rebuild! That _village_ was broken, and I fixed it. This world is broken- that’s what the SMP is all about!”

“The SMP is about control. There is _never_ a reason to completely destroy something, and the village was not yours to blow up. Don’t lie to me, Dream. Not again.”

( _The heat from the flames was warm against his face. Tubbo, Tommy and Fundy were huddled around him, shaking, singed. Wilbur wondered if the Sky Gods were satisfied._

_‘We are never satisfied, little plaything. You are our favourite toy.’)_

Dream had been silent. Then, “You say I have to let your brothers free. What does that entail?”

“Let them leave the SMP proper. Do not hunt them. Do not arrest them. Let them live. They will not cause you harm.”

Dream had scoffed. “Fine. If I win, L’Manburg’s gone, and your brothers will be exiled. _If_ , by some miracle, you win, you can have your _independence_.”

“Deal.” And then they had parted ways, without so much as a glance back.

( _He took in refugees. Niki, Jack Manifold, Eret. He simply wandered through the ruined embers of their village and found those who had a fire inside of them brighter than the flames around them. Something inside of him—the tiny, fearful part of him that couldn’t remember what the fire that ended his first life felt like, but remembered the horror, the childish fear, the screams of his first family as they were slaughtered by raiders—shrivelled and died._

_That was the day he truly became Wilbur Soot, standing, one with the ash of his second home.)_

“Wilbur. Fancy seeing you here.” Dream—the current Dream—walked down to him, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Dream. I’m afraid the pleasure’s all yours.”

Dream laughed at that. “ _I’m afraid_ there is no pleasure in doing this.”

“No? Well, here I was thinking you took pride in your cruelty.”

Dream scoffed. “I’m not _cruel_ , Wilbur.”

“Then what? Innovative? Is that what you’re calling it now?”

He stilled. Then, Dream slowly pulled his mask off his face.

He hadn’t changed, and that was the worst part. He had the same blond hair that seemed to stick up everywhere, the same light freckles over his face. He still had the scar on his chin from when Techno had nicked him while play-fighting when they were kids, and his front teeth were still just slightly crooked. He still had the same haunted shudder in his eyes, the same whirl of thoughts and memories shrouded by bottle-green, with gold flecks – a type of pain that was all-encompassing. Wilbur knew that look.

Something in Wilbur’s heart—a sharp, broken place that had been shattered too many times to ever be fixed—cracked again. “Wilbur, I’m going to give you _one_ more chance,” Dream stuck out a hand. “I want to see white flags. White flags, over L’Manburg, and then it’ll all be okay. You can come into the SMP, and you can bring your brothers and Niki and whoever else you’d like, and it can be just like old times again. We can all be friends again. Deal?”

Wilbur did not hesitate. “It can _never_ be like old times. I will never live under your rule, oppressed by your endless greed and smothered by your heedless tyranny.”

Dream froze, and a brief expression of hurt—internal, _horrible_ hurt—crossed his face. Then, he scowled, and slipped his mask back on. “How unfortunate. You could do so much with me, _achieve_ so much. And yet you still choose to die, like a dog in a wolf’s pack,” He smiled – cruel, knowing, _painful_. “Like a child in the hands of Gods.”

Neither of them had seconds. There was no doctor present. Somewhere, somehow, Wilbur thought he heard his brothers crying.

They began.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Wilbur made his choice.

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

_Seven._

_Eight._

_Nine._

( _They were playing on a fallen tree, one day in the middle of winter. Skeppy and Bad were inside of it, giggling amongst themselves. George and Wilbur had commandeered it, and were playing an elaborate speech to the adoring citizens: Niki, Sapnap, Karl, and Quackity. Tommy and Dream were up a tree again, seeing who could jump down the coolest. Schlatt was teaching Tubbo how to commit tax fraud, while Eret and Fundy tried to stop him. They were all laughing. The Sky Gods were quiet._ )

“Wilbur!”

_Bang._

* * *

Eret watched Wilbur fall.

When he heard what they were going to do, he had rushed out. There was only one place Dream would think of going. The river was a landmark, now. It was history, and Dream wanted to repeat history.

He had left Wilbur to die once before. He wouldn’t do it again.

He ran to Wilbur. He was on his back, stock still. The arrow was jutting out from his stomach.

“Wil! Wil, hey, stay with me man, okay?”

“E-Eret?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me, just- just keep your eyes open, okay?” Eret scrabbled at Wilbur’s shirt, trying to get the fabric away from the wound, but it was already sticky and stained with blood. “Fuck, Wil, breathe for me. Just keep breathing, please. I’ve got something that can help, but I left it in L’Manburg when I left. Just _stay awake_.”

He picked Wilbur up with a grunt (Wilbur wasn’t overweight by any means – it was just that the man was so _tall_ ) and turned to Dream, who still had his bow, arrowless, poised to shoot. He was shaking. “Eret, I-“

“You _bastard._ ”

“I’m sorry-“ He had taken off his mask. There was something in his expression that made him look young. He looked scared. “I didn’t mean for it to… it didn’t need to come to this.”

Eret scowled at his former friend, gripping Wilbur’s body tighter. “You knew it would come to this.” It wasn’t a question.

“I-“

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you know the prophecy. You’ve doomed us. Tyrant.” Eret turned curtly, and headed for L’Manburg, Wilbur in his arms. Dream stood, dumb under the tree, and watched him go.

“Eret…” Wilbur’s voice was soft. His forehead had a thin layer of sweat building, and his head lolled to the side. The white undershirt of his uniform was stained red, and Eret had to look away before the sight had him gagging. _Just get to L’Manburg, Eret. One foot in front of the other._

Simply speaking looked painful for Wilbur. “Tell… protect the boys for me.” He shuddered, bone-shaking coughs being ripped from his throat. “Eret, th-they- they don’t ha-“ another cough. “-they don’t have anyone. Eret, promise me you’ll protect them. Prom-mise-“

“Wlbur, no, I’m not going to _need_ to protect them, because you’re going to _live_ , okay? You’re gonna be fine, I just need to get to L’Manburg, I-“

“Y-you and Niki, you need t-to help them. They… th-they…” His eyes fluttered.

“Wilbur. Wilbur, stay awake. Please.” _Just a few more steps._

Wilbur’s eyes were glassy. “Tubbo’s… Tubbo was Taken. Protect him, you need to keep him safe, he’s fragile, the Sky Gods won’t go easy on him, pl- _please_ -“

“ _Wilbur._ ”

“A-and Tommy too, he’s so strong, he won’t want-t to ask f-for help, but you need to help him. Tell Fundy I’m… I’m proud of him, tell him… h-him…”

The dark walls and looming gate of L’Manburg came into Eret’s vision. _Good_. “Hey, Wilbur, look. It’s L’Manburg, yeah? You’re gonna be fine. You’ll be alright.”

Fundy was on watch. As Eret approached, he scowled. “Eret. You have no business…” he trailed off, eyes landing on Wilbur’s body. He gasped. Opened the gate.

The minute Eret was through (in enemy territory _they hate you get out get out)_ , he nearly collapsed with the effort of carrying Wilbur all this way. Carefully, he lay Wilbur down on the dawn-dewy grass. “Wil, Wilbur, look at me. You’re in L’Manburg now, you’re gonna be okay-“

“Wil!” Fundy came crashing down next to Eret, desperately clawing at Wilbur’s torn shirt. “Wil, please, don’t, pl-please, I can’t-“ He turned around to Eret, tears in his eyes. “What happened? Is he breathing? Wh-who did this?”

Eret looked away. “Dream. They duelled. Fundy, he’s lost too much blood.”

“No…” Fundy dove back down to Wilbur. “No! Wil, _please_ , I can’t, I-“

“F-Fundy…” Wilbur weakly reached up, grabbing Fundy’s hand. His eyes were half-lidded and unfocused. “Fundy, y-you’re the oldest now. You need… protect them. Protect them for me.”

“ _No…_ ”

Eret looked at Fundy pityingly. “Fundy, he’s dying. I-I have something that might help, but I don’t know if it even…”

“Stop _talking_ and go get it!” Fundy was sobbing, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and mixing with the blood on Wilbur’s shirt. “He can’t die, Eret. He can’t, not like- like-“

Eret understood. Eret understood, and in that moment, he remembered the promise he made to his father, all those years ago.

_(“Eret, there are things at play in this world that are far too complex for any one person to comprehend. You are to never tell those boys of what really happened to Techno and Phil, unless absolutely necessary. Promise me that, child. Promise on our family’s honour.”_

_“I promise, Dad. I promise.”_

_“Good,” A dark look crossed his father’s face. “I don’t pretend to like what the two of them are doing. The Sky Gods are a force too powerful, even for them. But for what they’re aiming to do to have any kind of possibility, the kids cannot know.”)_

“He won’t.”

* * *

Dimly, Fundy thought he was getting rather sick of his father figures dying.

He had never known his real father. He barely remembered his real mother (warmth. A chirp. An amber eye, ever watchful. Hunters. Blood. Cold). Phil was the first person he had ever been able to trust, the first person to ever treat him as if he was loved. Phil was his first father.

Then he died.

Wilbur had taken his role (his role, just his role. he hadn’t taken Dad’s place – no one could ever take Dad’s place, and they _all_ knew that). At first, he’d been bitter. _Wilbur_ wasn’t Dad, he’d never be Dad, and the minute Dad died he was suddenly almost never at home and Fundy was stuck with babysitting Tommy and Tubbo and Wilbur was wherever he was and it _hurt_. He remembered wondering where Wilbur would go; his mind had gone to parties and pubs and joviality, and Fundy had felt rage burning in the pit of his stomach. _That_ was why Wilbur seemed so calm. _That_ was why he didn’t seem at all affected by Dad’s death.

One night, Fundy had decided to confront him. He had come back to their shack empty-handed and _smiling_. He had ruffled Fundy’s hair and told him that he had splurged on a good dinner, and _how could he be so happy?_

His door had been open a crack. Fundy had burst in, red in the face and raging against his brother’s apparent apathy, and had been met with tear tracks and shaking hands pulling at Wilbur’s hair and nails pulling against the red-rubbed skin of his arms.

_(“Wil?”_

_“F-Fundy!”)_

He had been working in the mines. Every morning, before the sun rose, and Fundy hadn’t noticed the thick coal blackening his nails and he hadn’t noticed the way Wilbur’s dinner portions were always tiny compared to his and Tubbo’s and Tommy’s and he hadn’t noticed _anything_.

_(“Wilbur, what’s-“_

_“I-I’m fine!” Fundy didn’t think he’d ever forget the bone-deep crack in Wilbur’s voice, as he watched his older brother slap a wide smile across his face and dig his nails further into his arm. “I’m okay, seriously, I’m just being dramatic, I’m s-sorry.”_

_His nails were drawing blood. Fundy wondered if the grime underneath them would cause an infection. “Wilbur. Can I come in?”_

_For a terrifying moment, Wilbur looked like he would say no. He gasped, curled in on himself, an almost-subconscious move as if he was trying to sink away into the floor, away from Fundy. Then his voice was filled with panic and hurt and resignation and a thousand things that had been writhing behind his eyes since Techno died. He spoke quickly, garbled, sentences half-formed and never-ending. He was working every day. He had dropped out of school to pick up a full-time job. He was so, so tired, and he hated his life and he hated himself and he hated that he was too weak to properly look after them._

_That was the day Fundy realised that his brother would always protect them.)_

“-Need you to be safe, Dream’s gonna le-let you go, but you have to… have to go quick, please,” The damp grass surrounding Wilbur’s face dripped with his tears. His breaths were shuddering. “Don’t let me… don’t let me die for nothing.”

“No, no, Wil, please, _fuck!_ _Wilbur!_ ”

Wilbur’s eyes were unfocused. They tracked Fundy’s face, as if committing him to memory. He reached up a shaking, bloody hand, folded it in Fundy’s. “Be strong, Fundy. M-… make me proud.”

He let out a sigh. His hand fell from Fundy’s grasp.

He stilled.

“Wilbur?”

Sometimes, it feels like the world stops spinning. You know that it doesn’t stop—why would a whole planet stop for one person?—but things happen and you realise the world might as well have stopped spinning, because your big brother might as well have been your world.

“Wil, _please_.”

And the worst part was, he was so much more than _your big brother_. He had always been so much more, because he raised you, and you didn’t trust anyone more than you trusted him. He was the only person you could ever fully trust, and you never told him you loved him enough, and you wished that you realised sooner, and there was _so_ many things you could’ve done but you _didn’t_.

“…Wil…”

That’s when you felt like the world stopped spinning. Because he was lying in front of you, staring up at the sky in awe because he didn’t even have the decency to die with his eyes closed and you couldn’t close them because that would mean he was _really_ dead.

When the world started spinning again, Fundy heard footsteps. Wilbur was still dead. Eret was coming.

“Fundy, move.” His voice sounded muffled. Maybe that was the blood roaring in his ears.

He was pushed to the side. Eret was holding something; a small statue, made of solid gold, emerald eyes glittering mockingly.

“Family heirloom,” Eret muttered. “Mum gave it to me, just in case.” He laid it on Wilbur’s stomach, taking one of his hands and resting it on the statue. Wilbur didn’t move. “Just hope I’m not too late.”

Nothing happened. Wilbur still didn’t move. Then, with a flash so bright that Fundy had to shield his eyes, it was gone.

For an earth-shatteringly quiet moment, nothing happened. Then, Wilbur heaved in a breath, and he coughed, and it was the most amazing sound Fundy had ever heard.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re alright.” Eret, face pale and hands shaking, helped roll Wilbur to his side, where he wheezed and spluttered and choked on his own death. Fundy kept still, too shocked to do anything. Wilbur was alive. His brother was alive. Fundy needed a nap.

After his coughing fit, Wilbur had passed out (he wasn’t dead. Fundy watched Eret check his pulse, twice for good measure). Eret sighed, and picked him up gently, effectively snapping Fundy out of his trance.

“What happened to him? Why did you do that? How is he alive? Is he alright now? I-“

Eret held up a hand. “I used something called a Totem of Undying. He’s fine now, he just needs rest. I’ll explain the rest once we’ve put him inside.”

Fundy was not an idiot. “You’re still not allowed in L’manburg,” He said, frowning.

“Fundy, we’re past that,” Eret looked out over L’manburg, contemplative. “This isn’t about the war anymore. This is dangerous. This is _real_. I need to tell you about the prophecy. We need to find your father.”

* * *

“George, get my armour.”

“What? Why?”

“We have a problem.”

“I _figured_.”

Dream looked out over the cliff. It was almost bittersweet, seeing something that would be destroyed in a matter of days. “My communicator has a secret folder. You know the password. There’s a contact in there, and I need you to call it.”

“Who is it?”

“A friend. He’ll be the president of L’manburg while we’re gone.”

“Gone? Where are we- wait, _L’manburg_?” George’s eyes widened, behind his goggles. “You got it? The war is over?”

“No, George. The _battle_ is over. The war is just beginning.”

He never wanted it to come this far. But he had to. “Have I ever told you about the Prophecy of the Angel of Death?”

The Sky Gods were coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it gets weird y'all. It goes haywire after this


	5. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream and George and Sapnap and Wilbur were all friends, once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going back again, childhood time.

“The four kids of the apocalypse, they are,” the people of the village said. “Always up to trouble.”

They didn’t particularly care about what the people of the village said, though.

George, contrary to popular belief, was the oldest. He did not act like it.

“ _Sapnap!_ ” He was clutching at the ground, dried leaves from the trees overhead crackling under his hands as he scrambled backwards. His goggles had long since fallen from the top of his head, and his cropped brown hair was tousled. “Get _away_! Dream, _save_ me!”

“Save yourself.”

“I’m _serious_! _Dream_!”

Dream was next. Granted, it was only a few months; so little that not even George could comment on it. It’s not like George was the mature one, anyway. “Sapnap, stop being mean,” he sighed disappointedly, though there was a sparkle in his bottle-green eyes. He had shaggy blond hair that fell into his eyes more often than not, and freckles dotted over the tip of his nose and on his cheeks. “Boys, settle down.”

“Yeah, okay _dad_.”

Sapnap was a year younger than them, and was everything you’d expect from a fifteen-year-old. Impulsive, aloof, and borderline reckless. He dressed like a fifteen-year-old as well; dark jeans with long chains that served no purpose but to slow him down when he was drawing his sword, and a white shirt with a messily scribbled fire drawn on. To an outsider’s perspective, he seemed slightly out of place, among the other two older boys. Nevertheless, he got on with them like a house on fire.

Dream pointed a mock-commanding finger at him. “Don’t give me that sass, young man. Respect your elders.”

“Yeah, respect us!” George stuck his tongue out at him. Dream rolled his eyes.

Sapnap groaned, retreating from where he was slowly creeping towards George, who was still on the ground. “Fine. But not because you’re my _elder_ , or whatever. Just ‘cause I know I’d totally win in a fight against George-“

“Would _not_!”

Wilbur had, of course, entirely missed this whole interaction. Though, perhaps ‘of course’ wasn’t the right word – his father had always taught him to be constantly aware of everything around him, and lessons like that usually stuck. Unfortunately, the main source of his obliviousness was, in fact, his father.

His father was dead.

That was a fact. It was a fact, just like it was a fact that Sapnap loved dogs, or that Dream hated wearing masks. No matter how much he wished it wasn’t true, Wilbur knew it was.

He was the youngest of the group, by a significant number. Only thirteen—fourteen in a few months—most people in the village assumed that he was some sort of pity case; they assumed that the almighty trio that was Sapnap, Dream, and George had picked him up off the side of the road and taken him under their wing. But they made a point to not care about the people of the village’s assumptions.

Wilbur brushed a strand of curly hair away from his face. It was getting long, he’d need to have it cut soon. He’d need to make that appointment himself, because he was the oldest now. He had to be the adult.

Maybe he’d stop wearing yellow. Yellow was a bit of a _childish_ colour, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to be a child now (he couldn’t afford much, now. Four mouths are a lot to feed when you’re only thirteen). He didn’t want any of his good clothes to be wasted at work either. He had begun to work in the mines, early before the sun rose and before the others woke up. The head miner loved him; he was small and could get into littler places easier than the other men, and he didn’t need to be paid as much because he was only thirteen. But Wilbur didn’t like the head miner. He was a bad man.

He was a _very_ bad man.

Maybe if he stopped wearing so much yellow he’d be less bad. But then again, maybe not.

“Wil? Earth to Wilbur?” He jumped. Sapnap was staring at him worriedly. “You alright dude? You spaced out. Were you…” he hesitated. Then, he said in a hushed voice, “Were you _there_ again?”

Wilbur froze, but Dream came to his rescue. “He’s fine, Sapnap. Wil’s not gonna get taken again.” He looked seriously at Wilbur, eyes suddenly stony. “I won’t let them.”

“ _Dream_!” George hissed, looking worriedly up to the sky, as if the Sky Gods were going to come down from their hole in the universe and smite him themselves. “You can’t say things like that!”

Wilbur looked away. “It’s fine. They’re not- I’m here.”

“Good.” Dream’s mouth was set in a thin line. “That’s good.”

George’s eyes softened. “You still look sad,” he said, walking over to where Wilbur was sitting, perched on a rock. He put an arm around his shoulders. “What’s wrong? You can trust us, Wil.”

There was a pressure building behind his eyes. His face felt hot. “I-“ Why was Dream looking at him like that? “I don’t-“

He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t cry. He was an adult now.

“My dad died.”

For a moment, the little nook of the forest they had claimed as their own was silent. Wilbur looked down.

_Don’t cry. Do not cry. You’re an adult. Stop being childish._

George sucked in a breath. “Oh, Wil…”

He flinched. “I-I’m fine. I’m _fine_.” There were tears in his eyes. “It’s fine. I’m okay. I…” He whipped his head up, breathing heavily. Only babies cried. He wasn’t a baby. He was an adult, and he had to take care of his brothers because he was big now and he was the oldest and Dad was dead and Techie was dead and he couldn’t let his brothers down any more.

Sapnap had moved to his other side, sitting close. Dream was still looking at him with an odd expression. Somewhere, Wilbur thought he could hear the Sky Gods laughing.

Suddenly, he was angry. It was the _Sky Gods_ ’ fault. Everything was their fault. They took Dad away. They took Techie. It was _their_ fault! If not for _them_ , he would’ve just stayed at his old family and they wouldn’t have died in the fire and he’d be living fine away in some big mansion and he’d never have even _met_ Dad!

That was an awful thought. He didn’t want to not know Dad. He wanted to be with his family. His _real_ family, he didn’t even know what his old family _looked_ like, why was he wishing he was back there? He was being awful. If he wasn’t there, Fundy would have to look after Tommy and Tubbo, and Fundy was only twelve! He was so _selfish_ , did he really want to leave Fundy and Tommy and Tubbo to fend for themselves? _Gods_ , how self-centred, he was so selfish, he was the worst person alive.

But would they be alone if he wasn’t there? Maybe it was _his_ fault Techno and Dad were dead. Maybe he’d caused it. The Sky Gods had only started to take Tubbo after they took _him_ , after all, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to say he’d caused Dad and Techno as well. It was his fault they were dead. If he didn’t exist, the Sky Gods wouldn’t have touched his family. It was his fault. He shouldn’t be here. He should never had interrupted their life. They’d be so much better without him. It was his fault.

It was his fault. _It. Was. His. Fault_.

_Good job, little plaything. You’ve figured it out._

No. No, don’t take me again. I don’t want to go. Please, please, I don’t want to go. Don’t make me.

_But, plaything, you’re so fun to take._

You can’t take me! You _can’t_ , I need to take care of them, please, I don’t want to go!

_Not you? Hm, then perhaps one of your brothers. Little Tubbo was entertaining, but perhaps we’ll play with Tommy next. Do you think he’d be fun, little plaything? Do you think he’d cry? Scream, like you did?_

“No!” He clutched his head in his hands. “No, no, no! Don’t take him! Stop!” They couldn’t take Tommy. They couldn’t, they _couldn’t_. “Don’t take him! Take me, take me, please! Take me!”

“Wilbur!”

“Oh shit-“

“ _Wil!_ ”

And then he was whisked away.

* * *

The field was shrouded in a pale, frosty mist. It was ever-expanding; crops growing tall as far as the eye could see, an unnatural soft pink emanating from the cloudless sky. There was no sun, but the field was lit by a soft glow coming from nowhere.

His heart leapt into his throat. He wasn’t safe here.

_Welcome back, Wilby._

Don’t call me that. You can’t call me that.

He began to walk. He didn’t know why—it wasn’t like he could run, not from _them_ —but it made him feel better. The field stayed the same, expanding ever onwards.

_You’re being boring, Wilby. Why aren’t you playing our game?_

“I’m not your _toy_. And I told you not to call me that,” he said aloud. The crops (wheat, he thought it was) crunched under his feet.

_But you are our toy. Our good, obedient little toy. Why aren’t you playing with us? You’re making us sad._

I don’t _care_ if you’re sad! You’ve ruined my life!

_You call this ruined, boy? We can go further. We want more._

Suddenly, the voices grew louder, and more and more came. It was like he was falling down a dark hole and couldn’t see the bottom; it was like he was being watched by thousands and thousands of eyes that grew bright with hunger and a lust for his pain, and the eyes were all clawing at him, desperate for his attention and his thoughts and his brain and his life and what was he, except for a toy to them?

_Can he see us now?_

_POGGGGGG_

_AWAREBUR_

_What if we put him on another sky island_

_Lmao man’s gonna l o s e i t_

_Oh shit there is some thicc plot coming_

No, stop. Please, please stop. Stop it. _Stop it_.

_Giving up already, plaything? But we’re all watching you._

Why are you doing this?

The voices went quiet. Wilbur slumped, then realised he was on the ground. The wheat swayed above his head. The field turned dark.

_We are doing this because we want to._

_You can’t stop us. We will come._

_It will be your end._

_The prophecy has foretold. You are going to die, little plaything. Just you wait._

He saw flashes. A country. A flag. His family. Bombs. Traitors. A mask. Dream. Betrayal. A cave. A crater, a sword, a plea, _kill me Phil, kill me, please, Killza, please kill me please please please-_

_Oh, little plaything. You’ve entertained us._

* * *

Three of four troublemakers watched the final one sleep. He looked far too tired. His hair, usually brushed and artfully tousled, was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there were deep bags under his eyes.

It wasn’t _fair_. He was only thirteen. He shouldn’t have to deal with this, he shouldn’t have to be a part of this stupid prophecy that Dream only knew about by _accident_. None of them should.

“Dream,” George’s voice was quiet. “You’ve been… taken… before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” His voice sounded like a rubber band, about to snap. “Yes, I have.”

“How- I mean, you don’t need to answer this, but-“

“Just _ask_ your Gods-damned question.”

“S-sorry. Uh, how does it… feel?”

Dream hesitated. Then, “…it feels like you’re being ripped away from everything. It starts off with spiralling, you feel like you’re going crazy and you start blaming yourself for everything. They whisper in your ear, tell you that you’re nothing but a toy, tell you that you’re the reason everything in the world’s gone bad. They tell you that it’s your responsibility to fix the world, and that the only way you can do that is if you listen to them. That’s what the Sky Gods do. They’re manipulative, try ‘n’ get you to go with them willingly and stuff.” He sighed. “That’s what the ‘Tyrants and Traitors’ thing is. They manipulate you so much, you stop being able to figure out what’s a game and what’s not.”

“Oh.”

Sapnap looked troubled. “You’d… I mean, _you’d_ never do that, right? Go crazy, I mean.”

He forced a laugh. “Of course not. You really think I’d let some stupid _God_ take me down?”

_Liar._

Sapnap stared at him for a long while. Then, he glanced down at Wilbur, who’s head was in his lap. He was frowning in his sleep. “D’you think he’ll be okay?”

“He’ll be fine, Sapnap. He was fine before, wasn’t he?” _Liar_. “He just needs some good rest.”

George ran a hand through Wilbur’s hair. It stuck, too knotted to get through, and Dream wondered when the last time he had the time to brush it was. “He needs a lot of good rest, I’d say. I can’t imagine what the kid’s going through right now.”

Before, when Techno died, they didn’t realise he and Wilbur were even related. The family at the edge of the village kept to themselves, mostly, and the few people they talked to would never say a word about them. Dream knew Techno personally, though. They were on the same patrol group, and would constantly be competing for the top position. He never really thought twice about him, until the captain of the guard told him that he was officially the best fighter in the guard because the only other guy who held a candle to him had been killed in the night.

It was a strange experience. They had never even spoken, but it felt like Dream had lost a friend. He couldn’t imagine how it felt for Wilbur to lose a brother.

As if on cue, Wilbur’s eyes shot open. He gasped, throwing himself out of Sapnap’s lap, shaking violently. Dream was at his side in an instant.

“Breathe, Wil. Breathe with me. Can you hear me?” At Wilbur’s frantic nodding, he continued. “Good. That’s good, you’re back, you’re safe. Feel my breaths, alright? You’re safe.” _Liarliarliarliar._

* * *

Wilbur was trying to breathe, but it felt like his lungs were being ripped out of his chest. “I- I can’t- Dream-“

He felt a hand enclose his own. It was warm. Solid, real. “Feel my heartbeat, Wil. You’re with us. Sapnap and George and me, we’re all here, in the forest just at the edge of the village, and we’re alone. We’re gonna protect you. We’re gonna keep you safe.”

Dream. He could trust Dream, Dream was good. He wouldn’t hurt him. He focussed on Dream’s voice, at the way his hand rose and fell on his chest in time with his breathing.

“There you go. Focus on my voice.”

There was a hand in his hair, gentle. A presence at his right, warm and watchful, earth under his back and sticking up into his spine. He breathed.

“That’s right. Can you open your eyes?”

His eyes were closed? They were. He opened them.

George was the hand in his hair. Sapnap was at his side. Dream had pulled him closer to him, and all three of them were looking at him, worry etched into their faces. “You back?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I-I’m back. I’m sorry.”

Sapnap frowned at him. “Don’t say that, dude. You can’t control when it happens. If anything, _we’re_ sorry. A kid like you shouldn’t have to deal with that type of shit.”

“’M not a kid.”

George huffed a laugh. “Course not. You’re a _big boy_.”

“Fuck _off-_ “

Dream wheezed. “Ooh, the _kid’s_ got language! D’ya hear that?”

“Dream, don’t be mean,” Sapnap’s grin gave his next line away, “-he’s too young to be able to take it.”

“Shut up!”

George and Dream burst out laughing. Sapnap watched them fondly, shaking his head. Then he looked at Wilbur, suddenly serious. “But seriously dude, you’re young. I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”

Wilbur sighed. “Thanks. I can’t- I don’t need help. Really.”

George didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m fine. Really.”

“…Okay. But tell us if you need anything, alright? Promise.”

“Of course.” Not that he actually planned to.

After a moment of slightly terse silence, Dream pulled him into an uncharacteristically tight hug. “Really, Wil. No matter how bad things get, the four of us’ll always be together. We’re like, your second family. We’re always gonna be by your side.”

* * *

_“I think the worst thing, out of everything, is that I never actually realised it. But you’ve always been such a good liar, haven’t you?”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“I should’ve known, I suppose. I should’ve known you would leave me. Why didn’t I? Why did I let myself believe I could trust you?”_

_“You can! You can join us, and everything’ll be alright! All you need to do it accept, and you’ll be safe! The Sky Gods will let you go!”_

_“No.”_

_“Why? Why not? I don’t want to hurt you-“_

_“-But you will. The Sky Gods will never let us go. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve destroyed, it’s for nothing, Dream.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just now realising how confusing this timeline is sorry y'all

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I've already got like 5 chapters ready so I'll just post them all at once I guess


End file.
